Songs Out of Doors | Page 4

the
day your heart will say, "'Tis luck enough to live."
This is the song the Brown Thrush flings
Out of his thicket of roses;

Hark how it bubbles and rings,
Mark how it closes:
_Luck, luck,
What luck?
Good enough for me,
I'm alive, you see!

Sun shining,
No repining;
Never borrow
Idle sorrow;
Drop it!

Cover it up!
Hold your cup!
Joy will fill it,
Don't spill it,

Steady, be ready,
Good luck!_
1899.
A NOVEMBER DAISY
Afterthought of summer's bloom!
Late arrival at the feast,
Coming
when the songs have ceased
And the merry guests departed,

Leaving but an empty room,
Silence, solitude, and gloom,--
Are
you lonely, heavy-hearted;
You, the last of all your kind,
Nodding

in the autumn wind;
Now that all your friends are flown,
Blooming
late and all alone?
Nay, I wrong you, little flower,
Reading mournful mood of mine
In
your looks, that give no sign
Of a spirit dark and cheerless!
You
possess the heavenly power
That rejoices in the hour.
Glad,
contented, free, and fearless,
Lift a sunny face to heaven
When a
sunny day is given!
Make a summer of your own,
Blooming late
and all alone!
Once the daisies gold and white
Sea-like through the meadow rolled:

Once my heart could hardly hold
All its pleasures. I remember,

In the flood of youth's delight
Separate joys were lost to sight.
That
was summer! Now November
Sets the perfect flower apart;
Gives
each blossom of the heart
Meaning, beauty, grace unknown,--

Blooming late and all alone.
November, 1899.
THE LILY OF YORROW
Deep in the heart of the forest the lily of Yorrow is growing; Blue is its
cup as the sky, and with mystical odour o'erflowing; Faintly it falls
through the shadowy glades when the south wind is blowing.
Sweet are the primroses pale and the violets after a shower; Sweet are
the borders of pinks and the blossoming grapes on the bower; Sweeter
by far is the breath of that far-away woodland flower.
Searching and strange in its sweetness, it steals like a perfume
enchanted Under the arch of the forest, and all who perceive it are
haunted, Seeking and seeking for ever, till sight of the lily is granted.
Who can describe how it grows, with its chalice of lazuli leaning Over
a crystalline spring, where the ferns and the mosses are greening? Who
can imagine its beauty, or utter the depth of its meaning?

Calm of the journeying stars, and repose of the mountains olden, Joy of
the swift-running rivers, and glory of sunsets golden, Secrets that
cannot be told in the heart of the flower are holden.
Surely to see it is peace and the crown of a lifelong endeavour; Surely
to pluck it is gladness,--but they who have found it can never Tell of
the gladness and peace: they are hid from our vision for ever.
'Twas but a moment ago that a comrade was walking near me:

Turning aside from the pathway he murmured a greeting to cheer me,--
Then he was lost in the shade, and I called but he did not hear me.
Why should I dream he is dead, and bewail him with passionate sorrow?
Surely I know there is gladness in finding the lily of Yorrow: He has
discovered it first, and perhaps I shall find it to-morrow.
1894.
II
OF SKIES AND SEASONS
IF ALL THE SKIES
If all the skies were sunshine,
Our faces would be fain
To feel once
more upon them
The cooling plash of rain.
If all the world were music,
Our hearts would often long
For one
sweet strain of silence,
To break the endless song.
If life were always merry,
Our souls would seek relief,
And rest
from weary laughter
In the quiet arms of grief.
THE AFTER-ECHO
How long the echoes love to play
Around the shore of silence, as a
wave
Retreating circles down the sand!
One after one, with sweet

delay,
The mellow sounds that cliff and island gave,
Have lingered
in the crescent bay,
Until, by lightest breezes fanned,
They float far
off beyond the dying day
And leave it still as death.
But hark,--
Another singing breath

Comes from the edge of dark;
A note as clear and slow
As falls
from some enchanted bell,
Or spirit, passing from the world below,

That whispers back, Farewell.
So in the heart,
When, fading slowly
down the past,
Fond memories depart,
And each that leaves it
seems the last;
Long after all the rest are flown,
Returns a solitary
tone,--
The after-echo of departed years,--
And touches all the soul
to tears.
1871.
DULCIORA
A tear that trembles for a little while
Upon the trembling eyelid, till
the world
Wavers within its circle like a dream,
Holds more of
meaning in its narrow orb
Than all the distant landscape that it blurs.
A smile that hovers round a mouth beloved,
Like the faint pulsing of
the Northern Light,
And grows in silence to an amber dawn
Born in
the sweetest depths of trustful eyes,
Is dearer to the soul than sun or
star.
A joy that falls into the hollow heart
From some far-lifted height of
love unseen,
Unknown, makes a more perfect melody
Than hidden
brooks that murmur in the dusk,
Or fall athwart the cliff with
wavering gleam.
Ah, not